


Revue de L'Orient

by missdibley



Series: Zip [2]
Category: British Actor RPF, Midnight in Paris (2011), Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Actual Smut, Burlesque, Drabble, F/M, Implied Smut, Jazz Age, Midnight in Paris - Freeform, Paris - Freeform, Public Sex, Strip Tease, Time Travel, le polidor, speakeasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 20:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13489470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missdibley/pseuds/missdibley
Summary: F. Scott Fitzerald isn't read to call it a night so he and his friend Gil Pender head out into the streets of early morning Paris in search of amusement and possibly adventure.





	Revue de L'Orient

The Fitzgeralds had been quarreling for the better part of an hour when Scott decided he had finally had enough. He was on the verge of conceding to Zelda, in the vain hope that it might stop her from ranting and tantruming them right out of the bar. Instead, she let fly with a slap that left an angry red mark on her husband’s suntanned cheek. Departing in a furious cloud of blonde frizz and diaphanous skirts, Zelda Fitzgerald left a tobacco and gin-scented wake as she stomped out of The Polidor.

Scott scrubbed at the spot with his hand, a frown sullying his handsome visage before he brightened. At least the fight was over. For now. Grinning, he signaled for another drink, and was dismayed to be presented with the check.

“Come on, old man.  _ Une autre boteille de… _ ” Scott squinted at the empty bottle in front of him. “What were we drinking?”

“It was brown,” Gil Pender who, until the fight had broken out, had been happily third wheeling to the couple as they caroused through the night, pronounced in his best Hemingway voice. “Brown, and wet. Wet like the sorrowful eyes of the beautiful woman who spent her last night with me before meeting her death at dawn.”

Scott clapped Gil on the back. “He’ll have your hide for that!”

Gil knew better, chuckling ruefully. “He’ll steal that from me.” He frowned. “He can have it, as it was pretty crummy, anyway.”

Scott slid a few francs across the bar. “Well, that’s the last of it.” Shaking his head, he came to a few realizations. “I don’t think the missus will want to see me tonight. Not after all that dancing at Bricktop’s with Josephine and her set.”

“How was tonight’s dancing any different than any other night’s?” Gil joined Scott in getting to his feet, throwing his shoulders back unconsciously when Scott unfurled to his full height and towered over him.

“Zelda seemed to think my hands, or was it Josephine’s hands?, wandered a bit more than usual.”

“And did they?” Gil grinned.

Scott arched an eyebrow. “No more than so than that of the bullfighter upon her bosom at Gertrude’s party last weekend.”

Gil sighed, weary of their ongoing jealousies. He followed Scott into the street, protesting mildly when he felt the door’s abrupt closure shove him. “Hey!”

While Scott lit another cigarette, Gil took a discreet look at his watch, a digital model that he usually remembered to take off before his midnight journeys to the past. The display read 04:00 AM. “Jesus, is it four o’clock already?”

“Do you need to be going?” Scott looked almost winsome, eyes limpid and sweet as he pleaded with his friend. “Let’s take some fresh night air. Keep me company until I can patch things up with Zelda over breakfast in bed.”

“I don’t know, Scott.” Gil held up his notebook, a battered thing bound in blue cardboard. “I’ve got some notes I’d like to get down.”

“Why don’t I walk you to yours?” Scott brightened. “I can amuse myself until the dawn, at which point I will leave you until we meet again on the morrow.”

“Let’s see if we can’t find Ernest, instead?”

Gil began to walk south and then west, opposite to Marais where his present day apartment was located. He panicked silently. His walks through the Left Bank after nights spent in the 1920’s were always conducted alone, and it seemed to him that this was essential to his successful return trips to the present. There may be a night when he could introduce Scott or Gertrude Stein to the future, but this was not that night.

Meandering through the Left Bank, they bid silent greetings to other night owls as they found their way in the dark. From the banks of the Seine, they faced the Île de la Cité, Scott crossing himself at the sight of Notre Dame. They walked amiably until Gil realized they were totally and utterly lost.

“Scott?” While Gil’s watched worked in the past, his smartphone with its GPS feature that required modern satellites to work was utterly useless. He wheeled around when Scott did not reply, just in time to see Scott disappear into an alley.

The alley was dark and narrow, and at the end of it a red lantern swayed. In the glow of it, Scott’s angelic smile appeared to be a carnal leer. He didn’t wait for Gil to catch up before slipping under it and into a dive. That’s what Gil called it once he entered. A dive with no tables or chairs for guests, just a long polished bar commandeered by an unsmiling woman who was pushing two short glasses at Scott when Gil joined him.

“Drink this,” Scott smiled.

Gil sniffed the contents, then coughed. “What is that? Where are we?”

“I’ve no idea. Bottoms up!” Scott drained his shot in one go, gasping and coughing before demanding another.

The bar was empty of patrons, save for the two of them. Scott didn’t seem bothered, as they had the bartender to themselves, and so Gil decided he wouldn’t care so much about it either.

Just as Gil was about to suggest departing for a less sordid venue, an unseen band began to play. Somber and sloppy, this particular stripe of jazz music sounded funereal. A Chinese woman of indeterminate age took the stage revealed by the opening of dusty burgundy curtains. She wore an embroidered red silk  _ qipaos _ that had seen better days. Her straight black hair was cut in a bob that skimmed her jaw.

Gyrating to the music, she didn’t bother affecting any kind of enthusiasm as she began to unbutton her dress. She watched the ceiling, yawning, no doubt used to dancing for an empty room. When the bartendress barked at her, she rolled her eyes and looked ahead.

She showed surprise when spying Gil, sleepy and shaggy haired at the bar. The dancer stilled when her eyes met Scott’s. And when they did, it was easy to see that, despite the threadbare dress and the empty venue and the distorted music, she was pretty. Lovely, even. The flush in her cheeks was natural, and her full eyebrows were real instead of skinny arches drawn in cheap pencil. Biting her lip, she fiddled with the frog closures at her neck until Scott shook his head.

He tapped his thigh and so the dancer reached for the hem of her dress. Still watching him, she undid each clasp, the frock parting slowly over her thigh, her hip, her waist and then her bosom. Scott approached the stage, taking a seat at its lip so he could gaze in wonderment at this Calypso. He panted in time to the music, ignoring beads of perspiration as they formed on his brow and coursed down his face.

Under the dress the dancer wore an ivory chemise edged in black lace, and matching tap pants. Her black fishnet stockings were held up with black elastic garters, one of which was decorated with a red poppy. She unpinned it, offering it to Scott. He pinned it to his own lapel, and waited.

The bartendress reached over the bar, slapping Gil hard on his arm and demanding payment for the drinks and their admission. It took him a moment, fumbling for his wallet and producing the necessary currency, all the while watching Scott fall under this enchantress’s spell. The dancer removed her wig, revealing wavy black hair. She looked young, and almost innocent despite the knowing smile on her face.

Scott lit a cigarette, sucking upon it before offering it to her. She took it but instead of helping herself, she straddled his lap and kissed him. Slowly and deeply, one hand digging into the flesh at the nape of his neck. She broke the kiss only to exhale the smoke he had just inhaled. They resumed their kiss, her hand fumbling for Scott’s empty glass to dispose of the cigarette, and then she was helping Scott off with his jacket. Her small hands tousled his carefully greased hair, and then she offered her bare neck to his mouth for more kissing, more nipping, more sucking.

Scott growled, his hands disappearing under her chemise to tease her nipples to stiffness. Breathless, the dancer watched him pinch the buds with his fingertips before flicking his tongue at them. She accepted the hem of her top in her own hands when he pushed it at her, letting him guide the fabric between her teeth. She bit down, chest heaving and eyes wide as she watched him lick and suck at her tender skin. Her breasts were somewhere in between small and big, the perfect size for Scott’s mouth. His large hands together spanned the width of her lower back, holding her in place and at his mercy.

Gil was in a stupor, his mind slow and his body slower as he took it all in. F. Scott Fitzgerald engaged in a seduction with an Asian woman who was definitely not his wife. The Fitzgeralds may have been devoted to each other but that did not ensure something so staid as monogamy. He chuckled to himself, fumbled for his notebook, thought better of it, and left it alone.

“Hey,” Gil called feebly as the curtains began to close around Scott and his companion. He turned to the bar, but the unsmiling woman had gone. The room was quiet of its music and from behind the curtain Gil thought he heard the faint sound of footsteps as they receded from him. Shrugging, he checked his watch again — 5:00 AM — headed to the door.


End file.
